The Fool is one of Them
by Lyanna Kane
Summary: Because some of us will never fail to be pretty, whilst others shall invariably break tea cups.


**Author's note**: an odd little piece. The style is wanton, if adopted from Nichita Stanescu, poet extraordinaire and the bane of all the eleventh years of the regions. Don't look for too much depth into this, you shan't find any. And if the piece doesn't confuse you thoroughly, by the end of it, then my congratulations, brave, brave soul. God knows you'll probably be one of a kind. And yes, this is a warning as to the piece's absurdity.

He told her she was pretty, but his hands were shacking because of old age.

It mattered little that she was indeed pretty, because he dropped a tea cup once.

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. The soft and scented and burning tea splotch was there for all to see.

She was divine to some and monstrous to others. The same eyes so observant as to her aesthetic and moral qualities were not fooled by the subtle movement of his other hand, supporting the wall, having it look – oh dear, had Walter just lost his balance?

She never lost her balance, not on any account, but for- ah _yes_. She lost her balance to red eyes once, and Milady Death opened her dreaded gates and gave way to old questions and but one answer.

This answer is cold blood and soft laughter in an uncanny night.

It's cold blood and whispered half promises.

It's cold blood and a colder still threat and then a bullet through your chest.

It's cold blood and closing eyes and you're dead.

You're dead – but it's cold blood again – and you live still.

Life is death because as time passes, all blood lingers and all blood grows cold.

She could have lived all the same and waited for her blood to grow cold of own accord.

She was never given the time, however, and now she can never be only Beautiful, so she'll settle for _pretty_.

If as time is lost, much wit gained, then only the wise may die and a fool is forgiven.

A fool could work his magic and juggle as many as a dozen balls at once, all small and shiny and lovely. A fool's hands would never waver, and a fool's hands would never shake because of old age.

The fool was the true immortal.

Sir Integral had the grace not to say anything of the stain on her carpet, but under her gaze of silent horror, Walter wished himself far less a wiser man and more of a fool.

"My, my, a slippery trey?" Alucard had called at him, a taunt no longer carrying its worth. He hadn't answered, because he hadn't scrubbed the stain off just yet, and he was wondering just how it was a mere cup of tea could herald the sort of determination that would have him on his knees for hours and hours and with little success.

"Walter."

When the dead call your name with pity, then perhaps the stain isn't the only thing that shan't fade away.

The tremor in your hand shan't fade away.

Old age shan't fade away.

Death shan't fade away.

The smile on the fool's card shan't fade away.

The fool card wins you the hand and ultimately the game.

The fool is omnipotent, and so is Alucard.

Alucard is the fool.

The fool is immortal, because the fool is dead.

Therefore, Alucard should never have said his name.

They never knew her true name, and she never insisted on otherwise. "Officer Seras Victoria, sir," she would greet her superiors, but all they would reply with was, "You're one of them", or worse still, "A pity, such a beautiful girl…"

She was One Of Them and so she couldn't be Beautiful.

She was Beautiful, and so she couldn't be One Of Them.

She had to choose, but the choice was ultimately never her own.

If you're one, then you're not the other. Place your bets and hope for the best. Or don't hope at all.

He'd always made small wagers with fortune. He wagered another's life on a regular basis.

People had a distinct inclination towards leaving their lives in his hands.

Fortune is a three faced old-woman, and these women are the Fates and they cut a man's life's string, the soul takes to the skies or the pits of hell.

Sleek wires had a fascinating cut, and he used them with the same hands in which he kept these lives.

Shaking hands could mean so many life strings could end up cut accidentally.

The Fates never made their errors in cutting a man's life string.

They said you could read your fortune in tea leaves, but Sir Integral had always felt it a foolhardy well beneath even Hellsing superstitions.

Walter begged to differ, because between broken porcelain shreds, he'd seen the leaves and he'd read in them an invaluable truth: Walter was no Fate, and Walter was not, even as these cripples, a witness through time.

He stopped trying to scrub the stain off and just moved along, and then he apologized to Sir Integral for his shacking hands and asked for time off to see a doctor.

He never denied that his hands were shaking. What would have been the point?

Walter could die, a conditional.

Walter would die, a possibility.

Walter will die – incomplete.

Walter will die honourably. Ah yes, the future certainty.

She cried one day, or rather, she tried to. No tears would come, and soon she willed them away, lest others call them Beautiful. Beautiful for crying, One Of Them for shedding tears of blood.

When the choice became hers, it was for her Master to call it anything but.

He gave her blood. She gave him a smile.

She couldn't taste the human taste of it, and she couldn't devour the unnatural appeal of it.

Her blooded lips were _pretty_ in this smile.

She wanted to be Beautiful, but she couldn't help being One Of Them.

Her acceptance of this was _pretty_.

The Master laughed, but even in this, she was _prettier_ than him.

The Master could never afford her decision.

The Master would never understand, and in this Seras was the wiser.

It took talent to be beautiful and it took bravery to be One Of Them.

It only took pity to be _pretty_.

Pity the _pretty_.

But when the pack is gone, and there is no Them, and you're only One, and when Beauty has shied from your face – _prettiness_ endures.

She'll always be young and she'll always be pretty, and Walter may try to keep attentive eyes from his shacking hands for all he might.

In the end, they'll only have one thing to show for their trouble.

A grave and a broken tea cup.

**Author's note, part II:** My bad for all the confusing details and the awkward portrayal. Please try to be original when flaming, though?


End file.
